


What Makes the Snow White

by PlumTea



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Murder, Gen, holiday spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlumTea/pseuds/PlumTea
Summary: Lucilius realized two things when he woke up the day after Christmas: one, he really needs to get more sleep, and two, all his characters had somehow come to life. This is good, because he wouldn’t leave the house otherwise. This is bad because he hates people.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 98





	What Makes the Snow White

**Author's Note:**

> A collab with [Yul!](https://twitter.com/ainsophist) Bully Faa in the new year.

“Lucilius! Are you by yourself again? I think you’re by yourself again. You really should spend time with someone for the holidays—” 

Lucio has left about five messages on his phone. Lucilius isn’t listening to any of them. He knows Lucio has been invited to about ten parties over the course of the week, and it’s only day two. If Lucio dies of alcohol poisoning by the end of the year, it’ll be better for the world. 

At least Lucio lives far, far away from him, and isn’t prone to visiting the area by accident. Lucilius still hasn’t figured out how to legally compel the doorman into blocking his brother from entering the premises. 

Bag of groceries in hand, pulling at his fingers. A greeting from the doorman at the front desk, but no packages for the day. No mail, either. As usual, the apartment is dark, the blinds shut. He forgot to open them before he left again.

It’s too much effort to cook, so he peels off the plastic from a microwave dinner and heats it up instead. It fills his stomach, and that’s better than nothing. The lights of the city twinkle below, the slow trek of cars bringing people home from Christmas parties. He’s halfway through his dinner before there’s a knock on the door. There’s only two people that would come to visit, and his apartment isn’t in need of repairs. 

“I can hear you!”

With a sigh, he opens the door. “Don’t you ever get tired of this?”

“Don’t you think you should just give up?” Djeeta pushes past him, not asking if she was invited. This is way overstepping her bounds as an editor. Most of the times, Djeeta works out of her cubicle and talks to her clients through email, or sometimes the occasional face to face when they have to deliver manuscripts. She’s not supposed to come kicking down her clients’ doors. Then again, she keeps calling him a lonely eccentric shut-in, so she’s probably also doing this out of pity. 

At least she’s brought a nice bottle of wine.

“You didn’t show up to the awards ceremony again. I had to go on stage for you, you know!”

And he’s never going to show up, either. Things like those are a waste of time, and he has no desire to mingle with publishing executives he doesn’t care for. He grunts as Djeeta shoves a plaque and a folder into his hands, another certificate for the closet. 

He didn’t like the first awards ceremony, and he wasn’t going to like any subsequent ones. Djeeta keeps telling him that he should be proud of his work; his most recent comic series ‘ _Paradise Lost_ ’ won Best Graphic Story three years in a row, and was doing extremely well in the foreign market. The series follows the Supreme Primarch Lucifer and his involvement with the many threats that encroach upon the skies, both internal and external. But even that was nothing special— all he’s doing is making stories out of the characters and doodles he drew in his notebook margins when he was a child. He sent a manuscript in as a joke, and wasn’t ever expecting that call back. Somehow people ended up liking them, and he can’t say he understands why. Maybe the public just really loves beautiful people. 

The more Djeeta can keep him out of the public eye, the better. 

“Congratulations on winning!” she chirps, pouring him a glass and shoving it into his hands.

“You just want my next manuscript.”

“It had better be done by tomorrow’s deadline,” she leers, taking a sip of her own glass. “Don’t think you can talk your way out of it!”

He’s not going to try, not if he wants to keep his head. She’s a good editor, and he’s glad he gets to work with her instead of his previous editors who didn’t appreciate his way of doing things. She will also set him on fire if he makes her have to apologize to her boss for missed deadlines. 

“Are you doing anything for New Years?” she asks before she leaves. 

“Sleeping.”

She rolls her eyes, not surprised. “At least get a bottle of champagne.”

He spends his holidays alone, same as any other time. Djeeta clearly finds it strange— she has no problem in telling him so— but at least she doesn’t needle him into changing his lifestyle. Maybe he will get some champagne, it’ll make him fall asleep faster. 

After he’s done with his draft, he leaves the light on and gets into bed. It’s a king-sized mattress, far too much space for one person. The pillow smells like mint, the scented oils on his nightstand having seeped its perfume into the feathers. The wind scratches on the window, and nobody walks down the hall. Just the way it should be. 

* * *

There’s a man on his bed, leaning over with a sly smirk. “Good morning. Sleep well?”

Lucilius punches him square in the jaw.

The man goes reeling, and Lucilius scrambles out of bed. He lives alone, and yet someone is here. He doesn’t have a gun, damn city regulations, so he darts towards the kitchen in search of a knife or something else heavy to use as a weapon. 

He flings open his bedroom door, but comes crashing into someone much taller than he is. “Are you alright?” comes a voice similar to his own, with a face like Lucio’s, barring the long hair. Ornate armor and six white wings. He almost looks like—

Oh. Lucilius is really tired. He stayed up until 5AM putting the finishing touches on his manuscript, and is even wearing his clothes from the night before. He’s not a college student anymore; all-nighters are beyond him. He hasn’t slept properly since Christmas Eve, and he looks like hell. Now he’s hallucinating. Okay. 

Lucilius turns straight back around and crawls under the covers. 

* * *

When he wakes up, both are still there; his clone with white wings, and the man he slugged in the jaw. Two features he knows very well, all too well: after all, he’s spent weeks polishing the designs and years drawing them. Everything translated into reality, from the sweeps of their hairstyles to the shapes of their clothes. 

“Nice left hook.” That’s not exactly how he imagined Belial to sound, but the intonation matches the image.

An investigation. “Lucifer.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Belial.”

“Oh, I _really_ like when my name’s on your tongue. Care to say it again?”

He’s in hell.

Lucilius takes three minutes to stare at the ceiling. The two of them are breathing, shifting slightly as they wait on him. His fist did connect with Belial’s jaw earlier, and there’s a slight trace of bruising on his cheek. If he really is hallucinating, then he is so far gone that he might as well check into a hospital. “This is happening.”

“Oh, it’s happening alright.”

Somehow, his creations have come to life. Scientifically speaking, that should be impossible. As a former man of science, he should know. Dragging himself out of bed, he crawls to the extra copies of his books piled on the edge of his bookshelf. Some of those fiction-comes-to-reality stories pull directly from the source material, but all the characters are still there on the pages. His manuscript also seems to be intact. 

“Please stop,” Lucifer says when Lucilius pulls at his wings. They’re firmly rooted in his back, definitely not props.

He’s about to snarl some orders when there’s a crash in his living room and a woman says, “Oops.”

As much as he wants to go back to bed, he walks into the living room and wants to scream. There’s six of them, and he knows them all. The Four Primarchs, Lucifer’s loyal generals tasked with balancing the tetraelements. Sariel, the angel of execution who somehow gained Belial’s trust. And the spare. Armor, feathers, ridiculous outfits showing off their physiques. 

“Lucifer said you weren’t doing well before.” Michael’s voice strong and commanding. “Are you feeling better? Have you regained your strength?”

Not only is she looking right at him, she’s talking to him. There’s a smokiness in the air when she speaks. He feels faint, but Belial catches him before he can fall backwards. This is a nightmare. This is the worst nightmare. “Are there any more of you?” he grumbles. 

“You sound sick…” Sariel mumbles.

“This is my normal tone of voice.” He squints around the room, seeing if any closet doors are open to hide anyone else, but all the bodies seem to be concentrated in the living room. If he gets any more surprises, he might just have a stroke. They’re responding to him, looking at him. He can feel Belial’s fingers on his arms, supporting him from collapsing. Not only are Lucifer and Belial somehow real, they’re _all_ somehow real. 

The doorbell ringing is the last thing he needs. Even less so is Uriel shouting, “I’ll get it!” and cheerfully lumbering over to the door. Lucilius is not fast enough, and reaches him right as Uriel swings it open and Djeeta can see inside.

She flinches at the sight of someone else for once, but recognition spreads across her face when she realizes that this is a familiar face. “You’re hosting a cosplay meetup? Behind my back? When you left me all by myself to get your award for you?” Her glare is a warning, a reminder that he’s turned down the book tour and con circuit multiple times and he’d better have a damn good explanation for this. That’s a chore on its own, so he grabs her arm and pulls her into the hallway. 

How to put this. “They’re not cosplayers. They’re—” He doesn’t want to say it. If he says it, he might speak the truth into reality, but this already is reality. “—real.”

Djeeta blinks, squinting up at him. “Are you coming off your sleeping meds?”

“No. I’m not.”

She regards him with patience, pity, maybe both. She also knows he’s not the type to lie. “We’ll need proof.”

Gabriel gives her one, pulling the water into the air from a full glass, crystallizing into ice, and dropping it back down. When it hits the glass, it’s liquid again. 

“Holy shit,” Djeeta mouths. 

This time she pulls him into the hallway. “This isn’t the wine from last night, right?”

“It would be nice if it was, but it’s not.” Onto more important topics. “There’s eight of them, and my apartment doesn’t have enough space.”

“Can’t you just ask your dad to buy you another apartment?”

His look could turn charcoal into ash. “Do you have extra room or not?”

“Look, Mr. Manhattan highrise, I have two roommates, and you know that. I can take one, maybe, and they can crash on the couch. Can’t you call in friends for favors?”

“What friends?”

“Ah, right.”

“You’re… an acquaintance of mine.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“And you have friends.”

“I _do_ have friends.”

“I need a favor.”

She crosses her arms, nostrils flaring. “You owe me. I want the next deadline in two weeks early. You’re also treating me to that good British place downtown. Twice. And I want VIP seating to the next five concerts I go to.”

“ _Fine._ Get them out of here. Your couch for one, take Sandalphon.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t like him.”

Lucilius made Lucifer the protagonist for a reason. He poured all his creative energy into creating Lucifer and shaping the entire story around him. He needed a character for Lucifer to interact with outside of his Supreme Primarch duties, so he created Sandalphon; a background character who was supposed to stay in the background. Djeeta liked him, so she suggested that Lucilius add some more scenes of him, and that was a mistake. The fanbase _adored_ Sandalphon, and the editorial team demanded that Lucilius write more of him in subsequent issues. The sales numbers didn’t lie. Little throwaway character distracting everyone from Lucifer, the one that’s supposed to shine. 

“Maybe you should spend more time around him. Maybe you’ll come to like him.”

“No. It’s your fault he became so popular. Reap what you sow.”

“Fine. Sandy’s a charmer anyway. Gran will love him.” Djeeta snaps straight to her editorial role when she re-enters, people-pleaser, ready to give a smooth speech. “Hi again! I’m Djeeta, nice to meet you all. I’m Lucilius’ editor.“ She gets a firm handshake from Michael. “So, we know you pretty well, but we have to break some unfortunate news.”

She is going to give some nice PR fluff, fill her words with a lot of twists and turns to get people lost and comfortable before delivering the finishing blow. It’s all so inefficient. He owes these people nothing, but he despises his time being wasted with nonsense. He takes a deep breath and grabs one of his books. Ripping off a bandage should be done quickly and efficiently, even if what’s underneath is a terrible sight. 

“I made you all up.” Lucilius tosses the book onto the couch, where it nearly hits Sandalphon in the face. “None of you are real. You’re not _supposed_ to be real.”

Silence, for a long moment. All attention is on him, and he digs his nails into his palm to distract himself. 

Gabriel breaks the silence with a giggle. “We knew that.”

Lucilius squints. “What?”

“We didn’t know it was you specifically, but it would make sense,” Raphael says with a nod. “You look exactly like Lucifer.”

“Yeah, Lucifer’s his hotter self-insert—“ Lucilius elbows Djeeta sharply between the ribs. “...He took inspiration from reality.”

Lucilius feels a sharp flush of anger billowing up from his lungs to his ears. All that preparation and thought for nothing. “Then how do you get back?” he snarls. They haven’t vanished from the pages, so they had to come from somewhere. If there’s a way in, there’s a way out. Out of his apartment.

“We don’t know,” Lucifer admits, stepping into the room. He easily commands everyone’s attention; Lucilius knew he wrote that in, but it’s one thing to feel the entire room be swept up by just a few words. “When we materialized, we knew we weren’t part of this world. But why here and through what means, that we don’t know at all. I’m sorry.”

So they’re stuck. A swell of annoyance surged through Lucilius, but he’s not going to snap at Lucifer. He settles for crossing his arms and sulking. “Djeeta.”

“You’re not my boss,” she sharply reminds him. “I am _your_ boss.” Her tone shifts to honey when she helps Sandalphon off the couch. “It’ll be a little crowded in here, so I’m going to find you all places to stay, okay? Sandalphon, you’re with me.”

“What?” Sandalphon glances back at Lucifer, and back again. “Why me?”

“You’re fun. Don’t worry, Lyria will love you.” Sandalphon may have magical powers, but Djeeta has determination. And a good memory, because she doesn’t budge, eight magical beings in front of her be damned, until Lucilius hands her his manuscript.

Lucifer gently touches Sandalphon’s arm, pinching the fabric of his sleeve, halting him in his tracks. “We’ll see each other again, won’t we?”

Sandalphon is stunned, looks to Djeeta for confirmation, a worry springing into his eyes. “Sure!” She shoots him an easy smile. “He’s just staying with me. Visiting’s no issue.”

“I see. Please take care of him. He’s very important to me.”

Sandalphon turns pink, up to his ears. “Lucifer…”

Lucilius jabs his arms in the space between the two angels and pushes them apart. “Djeeta, it would be best to acclimate Sandalphon as quickly as possible.”

Sandalphon knocks Lucilius' arm down, frowning. Lucilius did write him to have a lot of energy. He hates energetic people in real life. “Aren’t you our creator? Don’t you think _you_ should be the one helping us?”

Lucilius thinks about it for a few seconds. “Not particularly,” he says, and shoves Sandalphon out the door. 

* * *

Lucilius lays down a couple of ground rules: no magic in public, stick by whoever they are staying with, no armor in public. Even if it’s pretty doubtful that anyone in the city would care if they saw someone walking around in a costume, but the less attention, the better. He has to take them all out to get proper clothing, and his head wants to explode. Too many holiday shoppers cashing in their returns. And he is _not_ carrying a department-store’s worth of bags. 

He gives them all an afternoon to browse the internet and acclimate themselves to modern society before he kicks them all to the curb. Or tries to. He lets Lucifer stay, because Lucifer is lovely. He thought he threw Belial out too, but when he locks the door and turns back around, Belial is going through his bookshelf. 

Sariel makes a sad face. “Are you really going to let Sarry stay outside?” Belial asks as he lounges across the entire couch and takes a swig of espresso. Reluctantly, Lucilius lets Sariel back in. He’s tall, but he is soft-spoken and doesn’t want to cause trouble. That can be tolerable.

His phone blows up over the next few days, and for once it’s not entirely Lucio. Djeeta definitely gave his number to her brother, because he’s getting a lot of surprise messages from a number he doesn’t recognize, informing him on the happenings of the Primarchs. Djeeta’s brother managed to find four people who needed roommates, and Lucilius is footing the rent for all of them anyway. The latest is a picture of Gabriel posing next to a young blonde girl in medical scrubs in what seems to be a hospital waiting room. He can already feel the medical malpractice lawsuit. 

He wrote these characters, they are strange but intelligent. Or so he thinks before he wakes up to Belial laughing hysterically at Lucilius’ phone. He never gave Belial his password. Lucifer is mumbling, “Oh no,” under his breath. 

Sariel is nowhere to be seen. He understands why when he snatches his phone back.

If anyone would try to talk to subway rats, it would be Sariel. Those things would happily eat a person alive, and Sariel tries to communicate with them. Who even knows how he got out of the apartment and to the subway. 

At least nobody seems to care that much; even the officer trying to talk Sariel back up onto the platform seems bored. Just another weirdo in the city. 

Well, if there’s one way to start his day, it’s having to go down to the local precinct and having to explain this mess away. Djeeta advised him that making quirky characters made them memorable, and memorable is exactly what he doesn’t need right now. 

* * *

Lucio has switched from leaving voicemail to leaving texts. Spellcheck is likely the only thing keeping his words coherent.

_ > Lucilius you should dome over to Vikala’s _

_ > Get out of the house more _

_ > Big brother went you to have a gun time _

They’d be amusing, if Lucio didn’t send one every ten minutes. Now Lucilius wants to throw his phone out the window. He nearly does, manages to wrench one of the windows sealed shut with frost wide open, but Belial grabs his wrist.

“Hey now. If you throw that, then your blonde friend is going to make sure you have a bad time. You wouldn’t want that, right?”

If Djeeta thinks he’s dead, she’d unfortunately have no choice but to contact his father. If he blocks Lucio’s number, then Lucio’s going to think he’s dead, and Lucio is prone to doing some very stupid things when he’s desperate. Lucilius settles for throwing his phone between the couch cushions so he can’t hear it vibrate. 

“That brother of yours just won’t let go of your legs, huh.”

Lucilius sinks into a chair, fingers at his temples to ward away the coming headache. “A bothersome pest.” Lucifer and Sariel still in the kitchen, trying out a recipe Lucifer found in one of Lucilius’ old cookbooks. Belial lingers nearby Lucilius, hovering but not touching, a mischievous smile promising everything and nothing. He slinks on the floor, propping his head on Lucilius’ lap. “He’s the one that looks like dear perfect Lucifer, right? There has to be something to make that mask crack.”

“He hates snakes, even fake ones that are obviously plastic give him panic attacks. He’s allergic to— why does that interest you?”

“New world, new place; I want to have some fun too, you know? There’s always ways to get rid of infestations, don’t you agree?”

Hm. It’s a much more refreshing answer than Djeeta’s, “You can’t just kill your brother.” He also doesn’t like Belial on his lap like that, so he flicks Belial on the nose, relishing in the yelp he gets in return. “If anyone has a motive for wanting Lucio dead, it’s me. I’d be arrested on the spot.”

“Oh come on, I can do better than that. I wouldn’t be so obvious. You know me, you made me, didn’t you? You made all of us.”

It’s a strange term, making someone. It’s a responsibility he doesn’t want. It’s a connection, a tether, a string that someone can tug on to send him stumbling. A different kind of snare than Belial’s fingers right now, creeping up his sides. 

He looks down at Belial, matches his sneer with a flat stare. “If I never go near him and he just happens to meet some misfortune, then that would be an unconnected accident.”

Belial’s eyes sparkle with delight. He slithers up, putting a hand to Lucilius’ cheek. “I was wondering if a gloomy guy like you really would have come up with someone like me. But now I see it— you’re _fun_ , aren’t you. Maybe you are my creator, after all.”

Belial’s touch burns. Lucilius isn’t used to this kind of attention, either. 

* * *

One morning he drops his cup because the first sight he sees is Lucifer, watering some of the dying herbs on the balcony. Someone with his face, who is not Lucio and not his reflection. Someone who smiles at him and says good morning before looking down at the pieces on the floor and promising to help clean that up.

Lucilius does not smile. He used to long ago, but it became too much effort and by now he’s forgotten how to. The few photos he has of him faking it always look lopsided; too much teeth sometimes, too tense in other times. It’s not the effortless curve to his lips that Lucifer can manage.

“You really do look alike,” Sariel mumbles, looking between Lucilius and Lucifer. “Like brothers.”

“Not brothers,” Lucilius snaps so quickly that Sariel flinches. Belial flicks a toothpick at a picture framed on the shelf by the air conditioner: Lucio and Lucilius standing next to each other, Lucio smiling brightly and Lucilius draining all of it. 

“A friend, then,” Lucifer suggests. Lucilius is so startled at the idea of being connected to gentle perfection that he forgets to complain. 

Lucifer was a fantasy he made when he was young, a doodle that he scribbled in the corners of his history notebook when lecture became dull. A story that started as a daydream. Lucifer is what Lucilius should be like, but isn’t. 

He has magic, he can fly. He can do anything.

“My friend.” Lucifer is polite, existing but not taking up too much space. He is always aware of himself, even when Belial and Sariel aren’t around. “I have a question.” Lucifer, ever-caring, waits until he sees Lucilius give his approval with a nod of his head. “Do you not have family?”

“I have an older brother. And a father.”

“Ms. Djeeta is the only one that I have seen visit you.”

“That’s correct.”

“Is there nobody else?”

Lucilius pauses. “No. There doesn’t need to be, either.”

“Even though your apartment is so large?”

“I didn’t buy it.” 

He’d been too rebellious. After a huge argument that nearly left Lucilius disowned, his father gave him one of his spare apartments in a high-rise, the kind that said luxury apartments on the outside and tax havens on the inside. An unspoken verdict to stay put and stay away. 

First Lucilius hated it, being shut away in this tall glass box of a building. But there was nobody to complain about it to. People had their own lives. He hadn’t let his roots grow into anyone else. He wasn’t memorable enough, they moved on. He wasn’t going to give anyone else any more chances. 

“That seems… very lonely.”

Perhaps. “You get used to it.”

Lucifer presses his fingers on the corner of the mug he’s drinking from; a quirk of discomfort that only a few readers have picked up on. “Should you?”

 _You shouldn’t_ , Lucio told him many times. Lucio, his sociable, friendly older brother. Father’s favorite, successful and charismatic. And because his brother gave him that advice, Lucilius made this place a fortress. If this was going to be his prison, then he would make it the most comfortable prison there could be. And it was. This high up, nobody comes by his apartment by accident, rings on the wrong doorbell. 

“Come over,” Lucifer says, walking over to the balcony. Lucilius would not follow if it wasn’t Lucifer asking. He flinches when Lucifer picks him up and holds him close to the edge. Lucifer can fly but he is aware that other people might be watching. He hovers slightly above the edge of the railing, his feet not touching the metal. “There’s so much happening. Isn’t it wonderful?”

It’s routine. In a place where there are happenings all the time, a bustling world below is nothing special. But Lucilius sighs and says, “I suppose.”

* * *

He’s usually the first to rise, because there’s nobody to wake up after him. These past few days, there are always sounds in the kitchen when he opens his eyes.

This morning’s breakfast is what he thinks is supposed to be a spinach quiche. There’s more spinach in it than there is quiche. A faint trace of dust remains on the kitchen counter where Sariel shelled peanuts. 

It can’t really be called a breakfast, but it isn’t brittle waffles or cold toast either. 

* * *

There’s a knock on the door. Lucilius isn’t opening it. A spike of dread pierces him when he hears a key jangling in the lock. 

He grabs Belial by his collar and throws him into the bedroom. Sariel and Lucifer hurry over to see if Belial is okay, and Lucilius slams the bedroom door shut behind them. 

“Hello, Lucilius!”

No.

He can’t stop Lucio from not coming into a room he’s already entered, but he is able to give his brother a swift kick to the shin. “I thought I told you to never visit me ever again.”

“You are so shy!” Lucio traps Lucilius in a hug, ever-oblivious and very, very drunk. Alcohol poisoning hasn’t gotten him yet. Shame. How he managed to get all the way here without being mugged or dying is a mystery. At least he lets go when Lucilius jabs him in the stomach.

Lucio stumbles over to the couch and collapses into a gauzy, silky heap. His long hair spills all over the cushions, and he accidentally knocks a container of colored pencils to the floor. “Sorry,” he giggles, tries picking them up, and dumps them all over the tabletop.

“Get off my couch.”

“Oh, fine, fine.” He rolls over onto the floor, and picks himself up. Alcohol haze has turned his skin slightly rosy, but he still looks effortlessly perfect. Lucilius wants nothing more than to empty a whole bottle of ink all over him. “Did you stay at home?”

“What else would I do?”

“You could’ve come to a party,” Lucio hiccups. “Gone out, seen people. Had fun.”

“As if I’d ever listen to your definitions of fun.”

Lucio sighs, flicking his hair over his shoulder, gold bracelets jingling. “I guess my holiday wish didn’t come true.”

“What are you babbling on about?”

“I wanted you to have some company. Did I not tell you? It was so funny.” He might have, somewhere in the five hundred texts he’s been spamming Lucilius with over the past week. “I was at Shalem’s for Christmas—”

“Does she know you were over for Christmas?”

“I don’t really remember, but that doesn’t matter.” Judging from the blurry photos on Lucio’s phone, maybe that’s for the best. “So I was going through her stuff, and—”

“She is going to murder you, and I hope I’m there to see it.”

“—And you know how she has a lot of those old artifacts from her job?” Lucilius hopes that Lucio accidentally broke one of the priceless museum restoration jobs, even if he would easily have enough money to cover the costs. “Well, I was playing around with one, and I thought of you.”

The bedroom door creaks open, as a trio no doubt tries to eavesdrop. Lucilius backpedals and pushes his body weight against it. 

“I was thinking of how you’re in here all the time, you’re so lonely, you need to get out and make some friends. It’s a nice holiday wish, don’t you think?” Lucio says this all in a normal tone of voice, like he did something ordinary and didn’t think anything of it. 

Lucilius’ body is so shallow that he feels his heart pumping just beneath his thin lungs. “You what?”

“You need friends from somewhere, anywhere. Maybe from those stories of yours. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Always, always his brother is interfering in his life. They have the same face, the same skin and hair devoid of all color, but nobody ever seemed to realize just how Lucio throws everything out of place. So dazzled with his everything that they never realize how much trouble he causes. Lucio’s smiling face, like he can do no wrong, Lucilius wants to cut it off his neck. 

He grabs a box cutter, sharpening it on the metal curve of the shelf with one swipe. He points at his brother, distracted as always. He draws it back, but his hand comes up empty. The cutter has vanished beyond his bedroom door. 

“New Years Eve is tomorrow,” Lucio hums, turning back to Lucilius, none the wiser. “Are you going to go out?”

“ _No_.”

Lucio sighs, like Lucilius is a lost cause. He’s going to keep needling that lost cause. “You should go to Zooey’s. She’s hired a live band. I’ll see you there!” He flaps a hand in an attempt at a wave, and nearly knocks the bookcase over when he stumbles out the door. 

When Lucio is gone, the three emerge from the bedroom to find Lucilius still standing there, shaking with barely contained rage. His fury burns so bright that it turns all inflection in his voice to ash. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Please reconsider,” Lucifer says, keeping the box cutter tight in his hand.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Belial hums, teeth glinting in the dim light, pulling Lucilius close to him and whispering his mischief. 

* * *

“So you wish to transfer funds from one account to the other, correct?”

Lucifer nods. He looks so different dressed in draped silks rather than the woolen sweaters he’s gotten used to. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Both of you are the account holders?”

“Right,” Lucilius flatly says, presenting their IDs, one real, one fake. The bank representative looks them over, confirms the amount and doublechecks their signatures when they sign off on the transfer. She stares at Lucifer a long time, enough that Lucilius feels a prickling in his hands.

“You look very nice with short hair,” she finally says.

Lucifer’s smile could charm the sun. “Thank you.”

They walk away from the bank, Lucilius stomping through the crowd while gripping Lucifer’s sleeve tight to avoid another Sariel incident. 

“My friend,” Lucifer’s lips are tight, and it’s not the cold. “I know the currency of your world is different than mine, but… it seemed like that was quite a large sum.”

“I suppose.”

“Wouldn’t your brother notice?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Lucilius says, almost laughing. “That’s just one of Lucio’s accounts. He’ll never notice the difference.”

* * *

“That bottle of champagne cost _how_ much?” Lucilius tells her again, and Djeeta wobbles on her feet. “Three years of my salary… maybe four…” she mumbles in a half-lucid trance. 

“It was a gift from Lucio,” Lucilius explains, filling her glass. 

She mechanically puts it to her lips, barely tasting it. “Your brother drops this nice of a gift on you? Why only this year?”

“He was feeling a little generous.”

She raises her eyebrows, but she isn’t going to _not_ drink her share. He hates that she’s brought Sandalphon back with her, but Lucifer’s smiling now, and it’s too much effort to cut that off. 

The champagne tastes like any other champagne. Sandalphon is in the kitchen with Sariel, chattering away about the food he found at Djeeta’s place. Lucifer is absolutely fascinated with the happenings on TV; the excited crowds and multicolored lights, enough that he is not paying attention to Belial flirting very badly with Djeeta. The ball drop is the same, and Lucilius doesn’t recognize any of the performers singing on stage. His apartment has never been noisier. 

Awareness is teetering in and out. Even though he’s sitting still, he’s phasing through space. Even if the windows are shut tight, the cold is starting to get a little bitter. Snow is fluttering down, not quite sticking but not quite sleet. The skylights twinkle, poking constellations of holes in the shadow of night. 

“Are you okay?” Lucifer asks, and even though he’s standing right nearby, he sounds like he’s an avenue away. 

“I’m fine,” Lucilius insists, at least until he tries to stand and nearly keels over. 

A laugh, and someone takes his hand, kneading his wrist. “Whoa, you really don’t look all there. Someone drank too much.”

“Quiet,” he hisses, unable to focus on anything. He can’t find the energy to object when he’s picked up and carried away. He’s dropped onto something soft, sheets tangling around his legs, cushions with faint traces of mint. 

“Why don’t you go give Sandy a good night kiss? I’ll take care of things here.”

The idea of Sandalphon receiving any more attention than warranted is enough to make Lucilius groan. Inbetween the laughter and the blood pounding in his ears, someone touches his forehead, and says, “You might not be feeling too well.”

“I’m fine,” Lucilius half-mumbles, shifting as he feels two weights on either side of him. He falls asleep between the two of them, all crammed together on his bed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Djeeta deserves to be paid more.
> 
> High quality versions of the pics!  
> [Sariel and the rats](https://twitter.com/ainsophist/status/1212575492978741248)  
> [Knife](https://twitter.com/ainsophist/status/1212574945424891905)


End file.
